The Wizard's Wand
by Elf Eye
Summary: Do not meddle with the wands of wizards, for they are quick to anger.


**Folks, I just received a nudge-note from _Inuyashaloverfan_ reminding me that I need to update "Things Fall Apart." I _swear _I will get a chapter to _Dragonfly_, the story's Beta Reader, by this weekend. It's just that these darn elfling stories keep popping into my brain. I need some sort of 'Whack-An-Elfling' Game where I stand, mallet in hand, ready to whack any elfling who pops up.**

**The Wizard's Wand**

Gandalf was weary of sheltering under hedgerows and in thickets. "I believe I will press on to Rivendell," he muttered as the sun began its descent into the west. "I would rather walk throughout the night than spend another uncomfortable evening shivering in my bedroll as the dew condenses upon my beard. The moon is in its last quarter, but it will do to light my way."

And so the wizard trudged on long after the sun had set. He made excellent time, but there is one drawback to journeying in the dark. That is when the Trolls come out, and even this near to Imladris there was always a possibility of encountering one of those marauders. Perhaps Gandalf had forgotten this fact in his eagerness to arrive at Rivendell.

Sure enough, Gandalf was hurrying past a particularly darksome stand of trees when out leaped one of those creatures. Of course, when I say 'leap', you must take into account that this _was_ a Troll. It was, therefore, a lumbering leap, if you can visualize the maneuver.

Gandalf had no time to draw his sword, but he swung his staff at his assailant and smacked him soundly upon the head. As he did so, he heard two cracks. At the first, the Troll slumped to the ground. At the second, Gandalf stared anxiously at a thin line left behind in his staff. As he watched with dismay, the top of his staff wobbled and then listed to one side. Slowly it fell over, remaining attached to the bottom portion by only a tiny fragment of splintered wood.

"Oh, bother," the wizard muttered. "Now I've gone and done it again."

On this journey, Gandalf's staff had been growing shorter and shorter with each successive day. First a ruffian had taken a swing at Gandalf with a sword. He'd missed the wizard but had succeeded in chopping off the top third of the staff. After dispensing with the ruffian with the best charm he could manage under the circumstances—a lace-untying spell that caused the Man to trip and fall flat upon his face—Gandalf had whittled the top anew, muttered an incantation to restore the staff's power, and gone on his way. Next, a warg had charged out from a thicket. Gandalf had thrust his staff at the beast, which had seized it in its mouth and succeeded in gnawing a good foot from it before Gandalf managed to slay the wretched creature with his sword. After wiping the warg drool from the staff, Gandalf had again repaired its top and renewed the incantation. Now, as a result of this latest encounter with the Troll, little more than a foot of staff remained.

The wizard shrugged resignedly. He moved a safe distance on past the unconscious Troll and then sat himself upon a stump, pulled out his blade, and whittled anew upon the remnants of his staff. At length, satisfied, he recited the spell to renew its strength and then arose and strode on. An hour later, the sun was arising in the east as he descended into the valley of Imladris. The Door Warden allowed him to enter the Hall without hindrance, for the wizard was well known thereabouts, and, whistling cheerfully, he made for the dining room, where Elrond and his household were sure to be assembling for breakfast.

"Mae govannen," Elrond greeted the wizard. Then the elf-lord caught sight of the stick that Gandalf clutched in his hand.

"Pray tell, what is that?" he asked.

"This?" replied Gandalf casually. "Why, this is the next best thing. Someday all wizards will carry one."

"Yes, but what _is_ it?"

"It's a, it's a, well, it's a _wand_, don't you know."

"No, I don't know."

"Surely you have noticed," Gandalf explained with an air of patience, "how awkward a staff can be. It is a deuced nuisance when you are trying to climb up a sheer cliff face, and it is hard to maneuver with when you are in a tight spot. Now, a wand on the other hand, rarely exceeds a foot in length. It is small, light, easily concealable—in short, it is just the thing for a wizard on the go. In the future, I think you shall find that it will be universally adopted in place of the staff. Why, I prophesy with utter confidence that someday there will be shops lined with shelves filled with these handy instruments—boxes and boxes of them, Elrond, all different, and each one waiting for the hand of that one especial wizard."

"In other words," said Elrond bluntly, "you have broken your staff again."

"Well, yes, Elrond, but, as you see, I have made do with the remnants. Fortunately, in a situation such as this, size doesn't matter."

"I am glad to hear it," said Elrond dryly. "Tell me: is a wand of much use as you labor over broken ground?"

"No, it is not," admitted Gandalf. "I must confess that a staff is much more helpful in that regard."

"And can you use a staff to crack the head of an Orc should you be thrust into battle in close quarters?"

"No, I suppose not," conceded Gandalf, who now looked a little sheepish.

"Will a wand look as impressive as a staff when you needs must gesture with it?"

"I suppose I shall have to allow as how some folk might laugh if I suddenly whipped out a little wand instead of prodigious great staff."

"Indeed they would, Mithrandir! Perhaps it is true that sometime in the future wizards will rely upon wands, but then a great many things may change as Middle-earth grows older. For now, I suggest you continue to rely upon a staff. In some things, the old ways are best."

"Yes, I suppose you are right. After breakfast I shall go into the forest and hunt up the right sort of wood so that I may fashion myself a new one."

Gandalf kept his resolution. After breakfast he carefully searched the forest until he found a piece of wood of the right length, reasonably straight, and with the sort of tangled knot of roots that Gandalf preferred to use as a sort of headpiece for his staves. He carried it back to the Carpenter's shop and carefully smoothed it so it would not chafe or splinter his hands. At length, satisfied, he uttered the spell that turned it into a staff suitable for channeling the power of a wizard.

"Now where is that wand," he muttered when he was finished. "I should dispose of it so it doesn't fall into mischievous hands."

He looked all about the wood shop, both on and under the work benches, but he could not find it.

"Well," he said at last, "I probably dropped it in the forest. I can't completely remove its power without holding it in my hand, but I shall just do what I can so that it won't answer properly to anyone who tries to make use of it."

He raised his staff and muttered an incantation directed at the missing wand.

Meanwhile, in the Armory, two elflings stared big-eyed at a third one, who brandished a stick that looked remarkably like Gandalf's missing wand.

"I should never have been able to spirit away Mithrandir's staff," boasted Elrohir, "for it is much too large. But I slipped the wand into my tunic and strolled away without him ever noticing."

"You must return it," said Elladan nervously. "We are going to get into ever so much trouble!"

"Yes," agreed Anomen, equally apprehensive. "This will redound upon us, Elrohir."

"Nonsense," scoffed Elrohir. "Mithrandir's got a staff now. He's not going to care about a wand that he was only going to cast aside anyway." He looked eagerly around the room.

"Now what sort of spell should we try," he murmured. His eye fell upon a pile of arrow shafts awaiting their feathers.

"I know! Those arrows we are supposed to fletch—it would be grand if the task could be accomplished without any trouble on our part. Then we could go swimming!"

"It wouldn't be very much trouble on our part," suggested Elladan, "if we buckled down and each did our proper share."

Elrohir ignored him. He pointed the wand at the pile of feathers next to the stack of arrows.

"Revio!" he commanded. "Fly!"

For a moment nothing happened.

"Saes?" added Elrohir. "Please?"

The feathers began to flutter back and forth and suddenly, as if they had been captured by a breeze, they were floating upon the air. In spite of their nervousness, Elladan and Anomen could not help but feel awe at the sight.

Elrohir smirked.

"Gwedhi!" he proclaimed. "Bind!"

One by one the feathers skimmed the top of the glue pot and then affixed themselves to the arrow shafts.

"Revio!" Elrohir again commanded. He intended for the arrows to put themselves away. As one, the stack of arrow arose into the air. Elrohir grinned. His triumph, however, soon turned to consternation. The arrows began to dart wildly about the chamber. Anomen ducked as one flew toward him. Elladan yelped and leaped up onto a stool as an arrow shot between his legs. Then he scrambled under a work bench as the arrow turned and headed for him again.

"Daro! daro!" Elrohir screamed in a panic. "Ai! saes, daro!"

The arrows did indeed intend to stop—once they had found a target that is, for a target is of course the ultimate destination of an arrow. Thus, the more Elrohir shouted 'Stop!' the faster the missiles flew round the room.

Elladan had by now leaped into a barrel and pulled its cover after him. Four arrows hit the top—thwack! thwack! thwack! thwack!—and the fletched ends flailed about as the shafts tried to burrow through the cover. Fortunately, the barrel and its cover were crafted from the sturdiest of oak, and the arrow points could make no headway. _Un_fortunately, however, there was pitch in the bottom of the barrel, and Elladan crouched miserably in the mess as it seeped its way through his leggings. He knew he would lose a layer of skin scrubbing the pitch from his body, and some of those layers would be located at particularly sensitive anatomical points.

Anomen, meanwhile, had burrowed under a pile of shields. Thwang! thwang! thwang! The shields vibrated like bells as arrows repeatedly flung themselves against them. Underneath the armor, Anomen was dazed, his head ringing from the noise.

As for Elrohir, he was running frantically around and around the chamber, arrows on his tail—literally of course. "Ow! ow! ow!" he shrieked as first one and then another arrow grazed his bottom. Fortunately, the arrows did not consider an elfling's tail to be a sufficiently dignified target, so Elrohir was not hurt nearly as badly as he could have been.

Luckily for Elrohir, and the two other elflings as well, Gandalf, new staff in hand, had decided to go for a stroll. As he neared the Armory, he heard the screams of the elflings. Alarmed, he hastened toward the building, wondering the while what foe had invaded Rivendell. He burst through the door, and the arrows turned and headed toward this new target. Gandalf ducked, and the arrows flew out the door—all save one that tore into his hat, remaining stuck there. A flock of geese was passing by just then, and the remaining arrows shot toward them. For a few minutes it rained geese, and then it was over—all save the plucking, of course.

Gandalf turned from the door and saw the wand clutched in Elrohir's quivering fingers.

"Give me that," he ordered. Elrohir complied, creeping cautiously forward to proffer it.

"Ellladan, come out of that barrel," Gandalf next commanded. Elladan had been holding his breath, hoping he might escape the wizard's notice. Now, quaking, he pushed aside the cover and came crawling out.

"Anomen, come out from under those shields," Gandalf next ordered. Shields slid off Anomen with a clang as he obeyed. Soon three frightened elflings, trying very hard not to shake, stood before the wizard.

"Now hold out your hands," commanded Gandalf. "All of you. No! Palms up!"

Each elfling held out a trembling hand. They rather suspected what Gandalf was about because once Erestor, goaded past reason by Elrohir, had swatted the elfling's palm with a ferrule.

Whack!

"Ow!"

Whack!

"Ow!"

Whack!

"Ow!"

The three elflings cowered, sore hands tucked under their armpits.

"If you _ever_ meddle with my magic again," declared Gandalf sternly, "I shall take my staff and cudgel some sense into your brains."

"Yes, Master Mithrandir," said the elflings meekly.

Gandalf turned and strode indignantly from the Armory, leaving the elflings to right all the furniture that had been overturned in their desperate attempt to evade the avenging arrows. The poor elflings: they feared that this 'whipping' would not be the worst of their punishment. Surely Gandalf would tell Elrond, and the Lord of Imladris would have them fletching shafts as long as any fowl thereabouts had tail feathers that could be pressed into service. Ai! a painful eternity stretched out before them in their imaginations: feathers, feathers, and more feathers.

That evening Elrond gazed perplexed at three elflings who had no appetite for the fat goose that sat upon a platter in the center of the table.

"Perhaps," suggested Gandalf, "they would prefer 'duck'."

The elflings shook their heads, not daring to look up. A pity, that, for they would have seen the twinkle in the wizard's eye.

"Quail, then?" said Gandalf.

'Quail' as an action, that suited the elflings, but it was not anything they wanted to eat.

Elrond's eyebrows were at full-staff, for he suspected the elflings must have been up to some sort of mischief. Gandalf, however, offered no explanation, and the elflings certainly weren't going to volunteer one.

Elrond posed a few questions.

"Elladan, why do you smell so strongly of pitch?"

"There is pitch in the Armory, Ada."

"Yes, I know, but usually that is where it remains, along with its attendant odor."

"I suppose I must have gotten some on me, Ada."

"I see. Anomen?"

"Ye-es, Lord Elrond?"

"Why do you keep rubbing the palm of your hand? What ails you?"

"Um, it is a bit sore."

"Why is that?"

"Because it hurts."

"What an enlightening answer," said Elrond dryly. "And you, Elrohir, why do you keep wriggling about? Is your bottom sore?"

"Yes, Ada."

"I suppose you are going to tell me that it is sore because it hurts."

"Yes, Ada."

At last Elrond gave up trying to pry any explanations out of the elflings, and he ordered that they be served porridge, which they ate, although with very little enthusiasm. When the elflings were finished, they begged leave to be allowed to go to bed, a hitherto unheard of request, and a surprised Elrond granted them permission. When they had departed the chamber, he turned to Gandalf.

"What do you suppose they have been up to, my friend?"

"I believe they have been playing 'Duck duck goose'," the wizard replied with a perfectly straight face.

Several hours later, as Gandalf stood in the garden enjoying a pipe before turning in, he noticed that a bush rustled slightly even though there was no wind.

"You may come out, Anomen," he called softly. "I have set aside my wand."

Anomen crawled out from the bush, and Gandalf beckoned for him to draw near.

"Now let me guess," began the wizard. "You climbed out the window and down the trellis. Am I right?"

"Yes, Master Mithrandir."

"Tut! tut! You have never been in the habit of calling me _Master_ Mithrandir, and you needn't start now. Mithrandir will do."

"You're not angry—Mithrandir?"

"I _was_ angry, but that's all over now. My dear boy, I can't afford to tie up my energy in being angry at my friends. There are more than enough Orcs out there to exercise my wrath on a daily basis, and to spare. You don't think I'd fritter away precious fury on an elfling, or even three, do you?"

Anomen looked immensely relieved.

"Mithrandir, thank you for not telling Lord Elrond."

"Yes, well, I didn't want you and Elladan punished for Elrohir's transgression. Elrond has to be even-handed, but _I_ don't. Mind you, I'm not excusing you for your part. You didn't try very hard to stop Elrohir, did you?"

"We told him it was a very bad idea."

"Yes, but you didn't tell him that you would march out of the Armory and fetch Glorfindel or Elrond or myself."

"No-oo. But, Mithrandir, that's simply not done!"

"Yes, I know," said the wizard. His voice, thought Anomen, was as kind as it ever had been. The elfling drew even nearer and, after a moment's hesitation, leaned his head on the wizard's shoulder. Gandalf put aside his pipe and put a comforting arm around the elfling.

"Yes," the wizard said again, "I know. And that is why, although you _should_ have gone for help, I am not particularly angry that you _didn't_. It would have been expecting much for you to have done that. But don't think that I won't expect you to behave more bravely in the future!"

"Bravely?"

"Yes, bravely. Some think that bravery consists of marching into battle against fearsome foes. That may be true, but there are other ways of being brave. Risking the ridicule and anger of your peers is a form of bravery. Think on it, my lad. Now off to bed with you. Elrond always checks on you younglings before he turns in for the night, and he will not be pleased if he finds you missing from your bed yet again. He may even set you to fletching arrows!"

Here Gandalf winked, and Anomen grinned in return. Gandalf drew away his arm, and Anomen slipped back into the bushes. A few minutes later, Gandalf could just make out a little figure ascending the trellis and disappearing through the window. Gandalf shook his head in amusement.

"What will they do next?" he murmured. "Ah, well, perhaps I had better not think on it!"

He picked up his staff and examined it critically.

"Elrond is right: a bigger staff is better. For one thing, the larger the staff, the less likely it will be stolen by a curious elfling. Pity I can't tell him to add that to his list of desirable qualities in a staff without giving the game away."

Groaning a little, the tired wizard used the staff to lever himself up from his bench.

"Better add that one, too," he muttered as, leaning on his stick, he headed toward the Hall, making for the door, of course—his trellis years were long past (or so he believed!).

"No, you would not part an old man from his walking-stick," the wizard murmured as he entered the Hall.

Thus it was that, to the great relief of all, Gandalf continued to rely upon his trusty staff. Of course, it should be acknowledged that Gandalf was correct in his predictions about the future of the wand. There did come a time, centuries later, when the wand was the wizard's weapon of choice, and dueling wizards relied utterly upon those slender sticks. But, Reader, that truly _is_ another story.


End file.
